


a cappella conspiracy

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Drunk on the Moon [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 08:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12186813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: first in a series of five little fics, in this one Porthos solves a mystery. Of sorts.





	a cappella conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> Only Timelords can live more than one day at a time :) <3

In the middle of dinner one evening Athos suddenly puts down his fork with determination and declares that four people are enough to form an a cappella group. Then he picks up his fork and goes on eating like nothing has happened. Aramis, coming off a long shift, is too tired to react and just keeps eating, d’Artagnan’s not at home so he doesn’t react, so it’s only Porthos who even really notices. He’s not quite sure what to do with the declaration so he ignores it. Besides, you really need at least five people for decent a cappella, as Porthos explains to Aramis later on that week. 

“No, it just means unaccompanied singing, it could be one person. Even single people can start a cappella groups,” Aramis says, as if this has been on his mind a while. “Four is a good number though, you can get a good range of voices among four people. We’re not a good variety, we all sing more or less the same, except d’Artagnan. I don’t think anyone else in the world hits quite that note of strangled cat.”

“No go, then,” Porthos says. 

“No. Can’t leave d’Art out,” Aramis says. 

He really HAS thought about it. Maybe he WAS listening. Bizarre. Porthos decides to scout out his last love and see if this is some kind of conspiracy, so he goes to d’Artagnan’s office to take him out to lunch. .

“You don’t really call us your loves, do you?” d’Artagnan asks, between frantically scoffing down a plate of cold pasta that the place they’re at call ‘salad’. There’s no salad-like parts to it as far as Porthos can see, it’s just mayonnaise and pasta and tuna. Porthos has a bacon sandwich on ‘bread’ that’s more like cardboard and has one single piece of wilting lettuce in. It was called BLT on the Menu. “You want some of this? It’s good, I like this place.”

Porthos abandons his sandwich and looks longingly across the road to the fancy hipster place over there. It might be fancy and overpriced and ‘up it’s own arse’ (Athos’s words, which is why d’Artagnan stopped going there; Athos’s word is like the word of God to him), but at least it has food and not wilty lettuce and mayonnaise. Porthos picks out the bacon. 

“Why shouldn’t I call you my loves?” Porthos asks. 

“Because. Can’t you use, like, boyfriend or partner or something normal?” d’Artagnan says. 

“No,” Porthos says. 

“Besides, I can sing,” d’Artagnan says. “I just don’t bother in the shower. It’s funner that way. I agree with Aramis about the number of people you need and I think we have an ok range of voices, Athos can sing really high if you poke him hard enough.”

So it is a conspiracy. Porthos isn’t sure whether that’s good news of bad news; are they ganging up on him to lure him into their creepy singing thing? Or are they just winding him up? He decides his next step should be going back to Athos. He curls up with Athos on the sofa one afternoon, Athos bored of working and watching reruns of old detective shows instead. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Athos asks. 

“Don’t feel well,” Porthos says, which isn’t entirely a lie; he’s got today off because his stomach’s felt off and he works with food so he shouldn’t be in. It might be half a skive. 

“Uh oh,” Athos says, darkly. “Don’t pass it on. You get it and give it to me and I give it to Aramis and he gives it to d’Artagnan and by THAT point you’ve cycle through being better to feeling well to exhausting yourself and get it again.”

“Never ending cycle of sickness,” Porthos agree glumly. “I think it’s just something I ate, just staying away so I don’t poison the entire restaurant and all our customers and get us closed down by the health people.”

“Dramatic,” Athos observes, then thinks for a moment. “Very you.”

Porthos laughs, plopping himself down and lying on his back with his head on Athos’s thigh, his legs hanging off the end of the sofa. He’s watching Morse which is the least gay of those old shows Athos watches. 

“Are you actually not feeling well?” Athos asks, while Porthos channel surfs until he finds a really old Top Gear. “Misogyny and cars. Yay.”

“I’m sick,” Porthos says. “Be nice. Also, seeing as I’m sick and pathetic and all sad and stuff, tell me about singing. Why are you all trying to rope me into singing?”

“Why are we what?” Athos says, and then listens while Porthos explains his detective work. Athos eventually huffs out a little laugh and bends down to kiss the tip of Porthos’s nose. To both their surprise it makes him sneeze. “Oh, bless you. Are you actually sick?”

“No,” Porthos says, sitting up and sniffing against his shirt sleeve. “Dunno where that came from.”

He flops around until he can flop against Athos’s side, head on his shoulder, sitting up. 

“You’re the one who’s been talking to everyone about an a cappella group,” Athos points out. 

“Liar,” Porthos says. “Tell me, I am maybe sick afterall. I sneezed and everything.”

“Good god,” Athos says, laughing, wrapping both arms around Porthos and resting a cheek against his head. “Why is it that you being so utterly ridiculous completely wins me over?”

“Because I’m cute,” Porthos says. “Tell me.”

“Fine. It would be fun, they both want to. It would just be harmonizing in our living room,” Athos says. 

“I was RIGHT?!” Porthos says, sitting up and displacing Athos from around him. “You were plotting!” 

“Little bit,” Athos says. 

“Why not just ask?” Porthos says. 

“Porthos, would you be in our a cappella living room quartet?” Athos says, hand pressed to his heart. 

“No,” Porthos says. “Of course not, I don’t want to be in your a cappella group.”

“See? That’s why we didn’t ask.”

“How is this any different?!” Porthos cries dramatically flouncing to lie back with his head on Athos’s thigh. 

“You like singing,” Athos says, stroking his cheek, looking contemplatively down at Porthos. 

“Get them thoughts away from my lily-white innocence,” Porthos grumbles. 

“But you’re hot,” Athos says. “I was thinking.”

“I can feel you ‘thinking’,” Porthos says, laughing. Athos grins. “I like your dick it’s pretty.”

“Why thank you. Could I bribe you with my dick to sing in my a cappella group?”

“I want Aramis’s dick, too, and d’Artagnan’s,” Porthos says. 

To his annoyance Athos gets up and goes skittering away. Porthos can hear him laughing a dirty little laugh as he rushes through the house. Porthos knows, he just knows, where Athos is going and what he’s doing. Porthois covers his face and groans. Sure enough, Athos comes back and drops a bunch of stuff on Porthos’s chest. Porthos uncovers his eyes. Sure enough, it’s d’Artagnan’s collection of packers. 

“Har very har,” Porthos says. 

“You can have all the dick,” Athos says, kneeling on the floor and kissing Porthos dramatically. It’s a nice kiss. Athos is good at dramatic kissing, though he doesn’t have the flare for it Aramis does he’s very intense about it and almost genuine. Actually, completely genuine. Porthos closes his eyes and sighs into it as Athos suck on his lower lip, pulling away. “So?”

“Fine,” Porthos says, languidly. “For all the dick I’ll do it.”

“Good.”

Porthos is still lying on the sofa with d’Art’s packers scattered over him, dozing, when d’Artagnan gets in. He sits on the edge of the cushion squishing against Porthos’s stomach, pulling Porthos’s muscled arm over his knees and holding his hand, bending down to kiss him away. 

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” d’Art says, smiling. “Did Athos bribe you with cock?”

“He did,” Porthos says, sleepily, a bit muzzy. “You know you sing beautifully, don’t you?”

“I don’t like singing like that,” d’Artagnan says. 

“No one’ll know if it’s you or me,” Porthos says. “If anyone ever hears it. I sing better low but we can switch it up if you like.”

d’Artagnan’s quiet for a while, so Porthos gets thinking. He tugs d’Artagnan down on top of him to aid in the thinking and d’Artagnan, skinny thing that he is, ends up half sprawled half straddled across Porthos, Porthos’s hips between his thighs. It’s nice. Porthos kisses idly around d’Artagnan’s jaw and neck and cheek, stroking his hair. 

“We could invite Connie and Sylvie to join,” Porthos says, as Aramis walks in with Constance in tow. 

“To join what?” Constance asks. “Oh my god why are you two lying on a bed of fucking cocks?!”

“Only some of them are for fucking,” d’Artagnan says, muffled by Porthos’s chest. “Why’d you stop kissing me?”

“I’m talking,” Porthos says, but shifts so his lips are against d’Artagnan’s skin while he talks. “Where’s Athos?”

“He went to buy wine,” Aramis says. “He texted. Also told me he’d given you my little Aramis.”

“Fuck,” Porthos says. “There goes all your sexy, ‘mis. Sorry, you are no longer for me, no more sex for you.”

“That means it’s all for me, right?” d’Artagnan asks, hopefully, rocking his hips encouragingly. 

“Sure,” Porthos says. 

“Fuck you all,” Cosntance says, coming and sitting on top of d’Artagan, wriggling until she’s wedged down the side and half on Porthos, half on d’Artagnan, off his back. “Join your what, Porthos?”

“Mm, yes please,” Porthos says, reaching around d’Artagnan to grab her thigh as high as he can reach. She shifts so he can reach higher but then stills his hand. “Oh, the singing thing.”

“I like singing,” Constance says, and demonstrates in a deep tenor that has her flopping about giggling. 

“See?” Porthos says. “We’ll have such a weird mish mash of voices, no one’ll notice.”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Skylark,” Porthos whispers into his ear. “Nightingale.Love.Darling.”

“Mm,” d’Artagnan says, getting a knee against Porthos’s thigh and shoving his hips hard against Porthos. 

“Oi,” Constance says. “I’m trying to text.”

Porthos still has hold of her thigh and she’s sat on at least one of d’Art’s packers. Aramis starts to laugh, coming to flop on the floor and rest his head back against the cushions, hair spreading gloriously, light and happy. Porthos turns his head. 

“Look at me, submerged, positively submerged in beautiful people,” Porthos says, pleased. 

Athos returns with wine and comes to grumble about his sofa space being taken, perching on the arm of the sofa instead, thigh against Porthos’s head, shoved down so he’s not sat on Porthos’s face (though Porthos wouldn’t exactly object, Athos is still in pyjamas which are thin and barely there). Aramis is still laughing softly, gazing into Porthos’s eyes like he’s the only thing in the world.

“Come with me, my love, to the sea the sea of love,” Porthos sings, breathless, buried as he is beneath people. I want to tell you,”

“How much I love you,” Aramis sings. 

“I'm drowning in a sea of love,” Constance sings the next line with Aramis.

“Do you remember the night we met,” Athos murmurs, bending to kiss Porthos’s forehead. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, tipping his head back and catching Athos’s lips. “Yeah, I do.”

“I want to tell you, How much I love you… I'm drowning in a sea of love,” d’Artagnan sings, all aching sweetness, tantalising even half buried in Porthos’s shoulder, under Constance.


End file.
